


to dust

by truethingsproved



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Post All That Remains, background Hawke/Anders, hawke is all kinds of angry at aveline right now so please be aware, hawke's having the absolute worst week, hawke's relationship with her mother is also very Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7115593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/pseuds/truethingsproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is screaming still long after they’ve taken the bodies, long after they’ve questioned the refugees hiding in the underbelly of Lowtown, screaming still even after Aveline has gathered Fenris and Sebastian away. </p><p>Immediately following All That Remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to dust

_You freed me. I’ll see Carver again. And your father. But you’ll be all alone._

No, no, I can’t be alone. Don’t leave me, Mama, we’ll fix you, we’ll save you. I just need more time. I’ll make it right. Don’t leave, don’t leave, please, Mama, _please_ , don’t leave me. I can’t lose you, too, I can’t, I can’t -- !

 _You’ll be fine. You always are. My little girl, so grown, so strong._  

Mama, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, I’m sorry I let Carver die, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep Bethany safe from the templars, I’m sorry I blamed you when she was taken, I’m so sorry, please don’t leave, please don’t leave me, I’ll be better, I’ll be better.

_I am so proud of you._

Mama, no. Mama, please, no, stay, stay, stay. Mama -- _Mama, no_ , Mama, I can fix this, I love you, I love you, don’t go, please, _please_ , I’ll be better, don’t leave me, _no!_

* * *

 

“Hawke. Look at me.”

It’s not the voice she’s expecting to hear.

Anders has not left her side since she first collapsed, her mother in her arms; he hasn’t touched her, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t tried to pull her away. At first, all she could do was scream, an agonized howl that didn’t sound human; the body in her arms is ravaged and brutalized and Leandra’s beautiful eyes won’t ever shine with light the way they once did and Katheryn wants to howl again.

If she can scream loud enough, and long enough, maybe she can reach across the Veil and take her mother home.

But it’s Fenris’ voice that breaks the silence, fragile as it is. The body is even colder in her arms than it was when she first caught her, and Katheryn wonders, vaguely, if she’s spent days down here in these sewers, soaked through with grime and blood, guarding the thing that had once been her mother. “Hawke,” he says, voice insistent even in its strange softness, and she wishes he would say something caustic and cruel. “Look at me.”

She lifts her head, eyes rimmed with red and swollen, her filthy face streaked clean from the sobbing, and Fenris reaches down to collect her hands, to untangle her fingers from where she’d buried them, vice-like in their grip, in the wedding dress.

“Aveline brought the guard. You need to let her go.”

It’s Anders who catches her when she tries to lunge for the body again and she’s grateful for that, she thinks, as he gathers her close to his chest. His fingers make their way into her hair and it takes her a moment to recognize that he’s trying to comb the carnage out from the black strands; it makes her shudder and keen, and she grasps at his pauldrons, pulling herself nearer to him and closing her eyes.

The great Katheryn Hawke, terror of Kirkwall -- she is nothing, she is nothing, she is nothing. She is agonized and she is nothing and Anders cups his hand against the back of her skull and buries his nose in her hair while she screams.

She is screaming still long after they’ve taken the bodies, long after they’ve questioned the refugees hiding in the underbelly of Lowtown, screaming still even after Aveline has gathered Fenris and Sebastian away.

She doesn’t think she knows how to stop.

* * *

 

“Sometimes, when she laughed, it was like sunshine.

“Her voice was always warm, and rich, and gentle; even when she was angry. The first time Bethany did magic, she was seven years old. Mother kept a rose garden in the back; Father loved roses. They planted some near the Chantry together. The year that Bethany was seven, the roses wouldn’t bloom, and we couldn’t understand why. Mother would be in that garden every single day, tending to them, trying to coax something out of them.

“It was Bethany who managed it. She’d ripped off one of the bush’s branches and was holding it in her hands and blowing on it -- I ran over to her, sure that Mother would be angry, but there were roses in her little hands by the time I got there. We told Mother that night -- Father wept, he was so proud, and Mother just laughed, and laughed, and laughed. She was joyful, absolutely joyful. She saved those flowers. Pressed them between the pages of a book and saved them. They were some of the few things we brought with us from Lothering. They’re still in Mother’s room. I can’t bear to move anything there, but sometimes I sit there, and I look at those roses.

“When I joined the King’s Army, I picked flowers for her, and pressed them in my journal. There are some incredible flowers in the Korcari Wilds. I found the best ones near Ostagar. I lost that journal after the Battle, and Mother never got to see the flowers I’d saved for her. I wish I could have managed to do that, though. To bring her something beautiful when she needed it most.”

* * *

 

Somehow, they are unheard when they enter the house again. She’d tried to stand in the sewers and had collapsed again, and Anders had simply gathered her into his arms again and carried her out. “You need a bath,” he tells her, voice soft. “You need to eat. You need to sleep.”

She wants to tell him that she is a nothing girl, and nothing girls don’t need kindness or love or care. Nothing girls can fade into the void around them. Nothing girls can simply vanish. Nothing girls can stop _being_ and so she doesn’t need a bath or food or rest; she needs to disappear.

Instead, she tucks her face against the side of his neck, fingers tight in the fabric of his robe. “Can’t,” she says, voice muffled, and she can feel him nodding. Being set down in the chair in front of the fireplace startles her, and she looks up at him in surprise -- the surprise morphs into terror that he’ll leave, too, and he silences the fears with a quick kiss pressed to her temple.

“I’m going to wake Bodhan to draw you a bath. He can get you something to eat once we’ve cleaned you up. Stay here.”

A quick burst of light and warmth emanates from his palm before catching in the fireplace, and she draws her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, quivering. It is an eternity before her reverie is broken, and Gamlen’s voice is enough to make her look up again.

“Where is she? Did you find her?”

“She’s gone, Uncle. I’m so sorry.”

Carver and Bethany were born when she was six years old and she has spent the past twenty-two years caring for them, protecting them. She has been an adult since she was too much a child to know what she sacrificed and she wishes now, more than ever, that someone would realize that she is not capable of doing what must be done.

* * *

 

_How could you? Your little brother._

I’m sorry, Mother. I’m so, so sorry. I should have kept Carver safe. It should have been me. It should have been me.

_The ogre would have been happy with any prey. It shouldn’t have been Carver._

I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was my fault -- it was all my fault. I killed him. I’m so sorry.

(The slap rings loudly across her face, loudly enough that the other refugees on the ship turn to look at them before looking guiltily away. Bethany gasps, and Aveline starts with surprise, but Mother is right and Katheryn doesn’t argue, even as Mother looks down at the redness on her palm, at the redness on her daughter’s cheek, the bruise that’s sure to form there.)

_Your apologies aren’t good enough. He’s dead and you’re here. It’s not good enough._

I’m so sorry, Mother. I’ll be better.

(The silence is worse than the shouting, worse than the accusations, and the slap is the last time Leandra touches Katheryn at all for almost a year.)

* * *

 

“So it was your fault -- ? You didn’t work hard enough to save her?”

She’s waiting for his palm to connect with her cheek and she’s startled when it doesn’t; Gamlen’s anger fades in favor of sobbing, and Katheryn stares at him in surprise when he covers his face and wails.

“I’m sorry, Uncle. I’m so sorry.”

She catches sight of Anders from the corner of her eye, a bowl in one hand and a bit of cloth in the other, but he doesn’t come any closer, doesn’t dare intrude.

“Did you -- did you kill him?”

There is a desperation buried beneath the agony in his voice, and Katheryn can only nod at the question. Yes, she killed the man responsible. Yes, she slaughtered him, brutally.

“Good. I hope it _hurt_.”

He moves to leave and she flinches, startled by the movement -- Gamlen only looks at her, his grief tainted by a look of understanding and the horror which accompanies it. “I’ll tell Bethany,” he says finally. “You’ve -- had to do enough. Get some sleep, my dear.”

The endearment sounds strange from his tongue but she accepts it, nodding, staring at the floor. By the time the front door slams shut she is doubled over, emptying the few contents of her stomach onto the floor; Anders rushes to her side, bowl shattering when it hits the floor, and she trembles as she heaves, before she all but collapses into his grasp.

* * *

 

“I joined the King’s Army on my mother’s request.

“We all knew Carver was her favorite. We couldn’t blame her. Carver always had skinned knees and bruises from playing too much and doing things he wasn’t allowed to do and Mother always smiled whenever she caught him breaking the rules and told him that what Father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I was jealous, as a child, but I outgrew it soon enough.

“She asked me to go with Carver to the King’s Army. She said that without me, Carver wouldn’t have anyone to protect him, or look out for him. He’d end up dead, or worse, and if we could prevent that, wasn’t that our duty? Our obligation? We loved him too much to ever dream of losing him and so I enlisted with him the next day; he was annoyed that I was following him but I think he was relieved not to be alone. Mother was so grateful that I went with him -- we had just lost Father two years before, and we were always afraid of losing Bethany, and it was worth it, to ease her mind.”

* * *

 

She can barely walk; each step is painful, and it takes longer than it should. Climbing the stairs to her bedroom is far more exhausting than it has any right to be, but she insists on doing it alone; Anders simply cleans up after her as she does. The mabari doesn’t disturb her and she is grateful for that; she doesn’t have it in her to love anything anymore, she thinks, as she lowers herself into the tub of water Bodhan had prepared for her.

The water is a ghastly mixture of grey and brown and red as she washes the blood and filth from her skin and her hair. At first, the sensation of water is enough to make her feel clean, but before long she’s scrubbing at her skin like she means to root out the filth from her veins. She combs her hair, dries herself, gets dressed methodically, and she’s sitting on her bed when Anders comes in.

“I know nothing I say will change it. I’m just -- I’m sorry.”

Katheryn looks up as he speaks, before looking back down at her hands. They haven’t stopped shaking.

“You were lucky to have her as long as you did. When the pain fades, that’s what will matter.”

_He lost his family, too. He was taken from them. He’ll know._

Her voice is hollow when she finally manages to speak. “I didn’t try hard enough to save her.”

“She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

The words are unexpected enough that they startle a laugh, strangled and cold, from her throat. “You don’t know my mother,” she retorts, and he falls silent for a moment, considering.

(He’s seen the fights, the screaming matches after Bethany was taken, brought Katheryn back home and put her to bed after a few too many drinks more than once and listened to Leandra and Gamlen hissing to one another about the daughter who was taken and the daughter who remained, and all the ways in which the latter failed. He knows. He doesn’t push.)

“No,” he agrees, moving to sit beside her. “And I’m sorry I never will. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

She wants to tell him that she needs space -- wants to tell him that she needs to hide -- wants to beg him to keep her far, far away from this house and everything it holds.

Instead, she reaches for his hand, lacing her fingers tightly into his. “Don’t leave?” she asks, as if she’s afraid of the answer.

(He doesn’t.)

* * *

 

_I know you have to go down there. Don’t take Bethany, too._

Mother, she’s my sister. I need her there. She’s a mage; she’ll be alright. I’ll be there, and Varric, and Anders, and we can keep her safe --

_Don’t make me lose another child!_

She’s an adult, Mother. She’s competent. She can make her own decisions --

_Do not make me lose another child!_

Mother, I am your child.

_You’re not taking Bethany. Find someone else._

* * *

 

“If you’re here to tell me that the Maker works in mysterious ways, then I swear, Sebastian, I’ll feed you to the dog.”

The words are hollow and monotone, but Sebastian offers a chuckle all the same. “We wanted to make sure you were alright. 

She frowns at the plural, twisting in her chair to see who else is there -- Fenris is standing in the doorway, arms hanging at his side and an inscrutable expression across his face. Though Fenris moves no closer to her, Sebastian lowers himself down to sit beside her, eyes fixed on the fire as he does. The silence is comforting -- it is warm, it is careful, it is there. 

“I’m not.” The words take too long to form in her mouth but Katheryn doubts they’d blame her for her reticence. “Aveline said she’ll bring me the urn. I have to -- meet with people, transfer things into my name. Contact Ninette’s family, and Mharen’s, and Alessa’s. It’s not right that they don’t know that the thing that killed the women they loved is gone.” She sighs, leans forward to cover her face. “Rutherford owes me -- could I convince him to let me see Bethany?”

“I can ask.”

Somehow, her hand ends up in Sebastian’s, her head falling onto his shoulder. Behind them, she can hear Fenris moving, picking things up and straightening them; it’s not until he moves to touch one of her mother’s things that she breathes in sharply, snaps _don’t_.

He looks at her, nods, offers a quick apology before moving on.

It is easier, she thinks, to grieve in silence.

* * *

 

“Mother loved flowers. Father used to bring her flowers that he’d enhanced with magic -- roses that sparked if you touched them. Lilies that change colors. He’d hold the flowers out for her and he’d have this -- this ridiculous grin on his face, waiting for her to realize what he’d done. And when she did, he would laugh, and he’d kiss her, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people who loved one another so much.

“She was a force of nature, stronger than any magic that anyone could weave. It was sheer force of will that sent her from the comfort and wealth of home into the arms of a man she loved more than life; it was that same will that helped her build us a home, wherever we had to go. She kept Bethany safe even when she knew that the consequences of doing such could leave her destroyed. She carried us from Lothering’s ashes and she held us up in Lowtown and when I was able to return her to her childhood home, it was that _very same will_ that made it home for me, too.

“I always wanted to be like her. I turned out more like my father -- but I always wanted her strength. I don’t think I inherited that, but it’s something I strive for, every day. Every moment that seems hopeless, every time that giving up is the smart choice or the safe choice, it’s my mother I see, telling me to push harder, to go farther, not to let anything cage me in. It was her I saw at Ostagar telling me to get Carver to safety. It was her I saw in the Deep Roads when our options seemed to be to make a deal with a demon or die -- telling me that there was another option yet.

“And I don’t know what I’m going to do without that. It was Mother’s will that let her live so long in the hopes that I would find her, and now she’s gone. And the whole of Thedas seems darker for it.”

* * *

 

“Hawke.”

The voice is familiar but unwelcome. At her side, Anders curls his hand against the inside of her elbow, as if to keep her from doing something she’ll regret, but Katheryn is a woman of many regrets, and one more hardly seems insurmountable.

“I’m here to see the Viscount, Aveline.” Her voice is sharp, angry. “I don’t have time for whatever errand you want to send me on. Get one of your guards to do it.”

Aveline waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t care what else is going on. We haven’t spoken about Leandra. How are you?”

It is by far the worst question she could ask -- _how are you,_ as if she’d suffered a minor fall, a small injury. As if she hadn’t held a body that hadn’t been her mother’s, hadn’t carried the stench of death and rot in her hair clothes skin for days afterward. Anders’ hand slides lower, fingers encircling her wrist, but it’s not enough to silence the sharp bark of laughter that rips itself from her throat.

She steps out of his grasp, steps closer to Aveline, shoulders tense, every inch of her on edge. “Keep your sympathy for the next person you let die.”

Aveline flinches. “What was that for?”

Around them, guards turn to watch the argument beginning to unfold. Katheryn Hawke is not an uncommon sight here; all too often she is at the center of whatever hell has been unleashed, ready with a blade and a joke. Now, she is shaking with anger, voice rising. She doesn’t care who sees them. She doesn’t care that Aveline’s cheeks are flushing with embarrassment at the scene. _I’ll show you a scene,_ she thinks, and her rage has taken root in her blood, her bones.

“Your job is protecting the city.” Her voice is a snarl, loud enough that it’s overcome all other conversation. The whole of the room has fallen silent, now; the more polite bystanders have averted their eyes, become fascinated by their fingernails or whatever they hold in their hands. Most openly gawk. “Emeric had been investigating for years. _I_ was investigating. We brought you proof, we brought you _human bones,_ and you lot didn’t have the spine to ruffle some feathers and do your damned jobs. It was more important to keep up appearances and appease the nobility than to save lives, wasn’t it? And now you care because the woman taken wasn’t a mage, or some merchant’s wife, but my mother? Now that the victim was a woman with money, someone you _knew,_ you care? How safe were Mharen? Ninette? Alessa? If they’d had more money, if you’d known them, would you have done a damn thing, or would you have kept yourself safe in your office? You’re captain because the people trust you to do your job. If you were any good, my mother would still be alive.”

The silence between them is deafening. Aveline looks rather as though she’s been slapped across the face and Katheryn revels in it. “I see,” she says, finally.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“So you agree that you should have stopped this?”

“Would have? Certainly.” If there was ever any friendship between them, it seems to be gone, now. Katheryn can’t pretend she’s sorry about it, not now. “Could have? Some people are broken. I don’t have an answer that could satisfy you. The guards never do.”

“This isn’t about your fucking guards. This is about _your failure._ ”

“Cast your blame if you want, but this isn’t about me.” Aveline bows her head, takes a step back. “I am sorry for your loss.”

It’s only Anders’ fingers tightening around her wrist that stop her from following Aveline as she retreats. Once Aveline is gone, curious onlookers starting to try and hide their staring, she shakes herself free of his grasp, raising a hand to stop any attempt to speak to her.

“I need a moment.”

He steps back, nods -- if anyone’s following her as she turns and walks down the hall, shoving through the door, she doesn’t see them. She doesn’t take in a breath until she’s outside, immediately moving to hide herself in the shadows of one of the manor’s massive stone columns, and once she does breathe in, she starts to shake again.

Even breathing is impossible.

* * *

 

How did they find her here? Bethany. How did they know?

_Perhaps they’ve heard of you two. It’s not as though you kept a low profile._

Don’t you dare blame me for this. When I was here, she was safe. I left her behind because you begged, Mother, and now she’s locked in a cage. I was gone for only a few weeks and they took her, because you couldn’t keep her safe, you couldn’t hide her. Don’t you _dare_ blame me.

_I’m not --_

I’ll shoulder the blame for Carver’s death and I’ll carry the guilt of everyone else’s sins but I won’t carry this. When I was here, she was safe, and the moment I left, she was gone. She was _gone_. You let them take her. You could have run, could have fought them, could have hidden her, and you just let them walk right in here and take her away from us. After everything we’ve done to keep her safe. After everything Father’s done.

_I tried --_

That’s not good enough.

_But --_

She’s still gone. It’s not enough! How could you let them take her?

_I didn’t --_

Father would be ashamed of you. I need to leave. I can’t bear the sight of you right now.

* * *

 

The moment she is in the Hanged Man, Varric is at her side, and the expression on his face is one she’s come to recognize all too well.

“I’m sorry, Hawke.”

It’s all he says; she’s grateful, for that. For her part, Isabela only looks at her, uncomfortable, before ordering another drink. “It’s better than anything I could say,” she says finally, and Katheryn lets out a short laugh.

“Here’s to self-awareness, my friend.”

Varric lays his hand gently over hers, jerking his head toward the stairs. She nods, Isabela following, as they head to his room. She cannot bear to be seen falling apart again.

It’s only once they’re in the privacy of Varric’s room that she sits, that she allows her shoulders to sag and her expression to falter and she looks lost and frightened and alone and terribly, terribly small.

“We heard about what happened with Aveline.”

“To be fair, so did the half of Kirkwall that was there when it happened.” Isabela sits, crossing her legs and lounging back. “And then the other half of Kirkwall that wasn’t.”

Katheryn only nods.

“D’you want to talk about it?”

She raises an eyebrow, eyes locking on to Varric’s. “If you’re going to defend her incompetence, I’ll save us both the trouble and just leave right now.”

Isabela’s snort startles her. “When was the last time I had anything kind or forgiving to say about her?”

“Daisy wasn’t sure if she should come and see you. I said I’d ask.”

“I don’t want a fucking blood mage in my home. Would she like to see what he did to my mother’s body? Would she like to see what her toying with demons can do to someone?”

“I’ll tell her no, then.”

She drinks the last of her ale in silence before standing. Varric is the first to break the silence that follows. “Have you spoken to Bethany yet?”

“Not yet, no. Sebastian is bringing me to the Gallows later today, to try and talk to Rutherford, convince him to let me see her.”

They fall silent again; what else is there to say?

* * *

 

“I don’t know what I’m meant to do anymore. I don’t know who I am.”

* * *

 

The ashes are scattered over the docks -- the place stinks of sweat and piss and salt and filth, but it’s the only thing she can think to do. She cannot keep the urn in her house any longer without wanting to tear herself to shreds.

(Rutherford had refused her -- something about Knight Commander Meredith’s orders, something she hadn’t heard because she’d simply turned and walked away the moment he said _no_. She was too tired, now, to fight. Too tired for much of anything. Sebastian had stayed and tried to reason with him but she can only assume it was fruitless; she hasn’t asked.)

And she is alone, so alone.

There is a letter on her desk inviting her to Orlais for a wyvern hunt. She needs the time away from this place, away from all of the death and decay hiding in every corner. (She cannot, will not enter her mother’s room; even Bodhan won’t go near it. The dog still sits outside it every morning, whining for Leandra to open the door, looking defeated when she doesn’t.)

There is a letter on her desk from the Viscount urging her to involve herself further in the city’s countless struggles with the Qunari, real or imagined. There is a letter on her desk asking for her aid with anything, everything, and she’d like to set the whole damned house ablaze.

She ticks names off on her fingers. Malcolm Hawke, her father -- dead. Leandra Hawke, her mother -- dead. Carver Hawke, her brother -- dead. Bethany Hawke, her sister -- locked in the Gallows, kept hostage for the sin of her existence.

Katheryn Hawke, herself -- she doesn’t quite know anymore. She certainly isn’t still alive.

The letter from Orlais gets shoved to the floor, along with everything else on her desk, and her hands are shaking and her shoulders are heaving and she can’t stop screaming.

* * *

 

I just need more time. I’ll make it right. Don’t go.

**Author's Note:**

> hello again!!
> 
> about six months ago i got into dragon age because my sister's the Worst and now i'm absolutely in love with this universe. thank you to my sister for her fenris consultations, and for beta-ing; also, thank you to lee and to marta for beta-ing.
> 
> and to bioware for getting me into this universe why would you do this i'm a Good Person
> 
> (find me at fantastiquejacques on tumblr!)


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